Once Burned

by L. A. Witt

  But even in the throes of a panic attack, even while he’d clearly been struggling to catch his breath and rein in the demons from his past, he’d had the presence of mind to reject my suggestion. His inability to get medical treatment when he needed it was so ingrained in him, it had cut through a fucking panic attack.

  I rubbed my eyes with my thumb and forefinger. A military veteran. With combat-related PTSD. And he couldn’t afford to get treatment. Or risk someone noticing he was illegal.

  What if he really did have a life-threatening emergency? What if he got hurt at work? Or got into a car accident? I knew ERs were required to stabilize anyone who came through the door, but then what? How long before he’d be booted out of the hospital for his inability to pay? Or escorted out of the country because he didn’t have a damn green card?

  I dropped my hand to my desk and swore into the silence of my office. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. What the hell could I do about it, though?

  Not a damn thing, apparently. I hadn’t even been able to take him somewhere to get help last night. His situation? I didn’t even know where to start.

  Make sure he was okay, maybe. I wanted to text him, but my cell signal wasn’t so hot on the ship. They must’ve been running some of the radar equipment today. Always scrambled the shit out of my reception. And anyway, he might’ve still been asleep. It was only 1100, after all, and he’d barely slept last night. I’d give him a couple more hours before I went down to the pier to send him a message. I had left a note under his phone telling him to call me on the ship if he needed anything. So far, nothing.

  Restlessness was starting to make me itch, so I got up and left, the hatch clanging shut behind me. Not far down the passageway, I knocked on another.

  “It’s open,” Captain Hawthorne said gruffly.

  I stepped inside. “Hey. You got a minute?”

  “Sure.” He put a thick binder down and removed his glasses while I took a seat in front of his desk. “How’d XOI go?”

  I grunted. “They’ll be coming to see you if they set foot in my office again.”

  “Repeat offenders?”

  “One of them. And they’re both from a shop that’s about to install a revolving door in my office.”

  Hawthorne scowled. “What the fuck is going on down there?”

  “Don’t know.” I shook my head. “I put the fear of God into the LPO, though. He doesn’t straighten shit out in a hurry, they’ll all be hearing from me.”

  “Good, good.”

  We both fell quiet for a minute. The disciplinary mess wasn’t really a shock. The Fort Stevens had had a rough couple of years. Morale was in the toilet. Couldn’t really blame the crew, though. It was hard to keep people in line when they knew damn well their last CO had gone down for bribing people in security to hide the results of his drug tests. The CO before him—along with the XO I’d replaced and several other members of the brass—had been busted taking part in the prostitution ring a lieutenant had been running. From what I’d heard from people who’d been here for the worst of it, discipline had pretty much crumbled in the enlisted ranks before any of that had even started. A chief had gone to jail in some port or another for beating up a local national. Federal agents had apparently escorted a master chief off the ship in handcuffs after “something you honestly don’t want to know about, Captain.”

  Yeah. This place was a mess. Which meant Hawthorne and I had to pull it all together, especially with a deployment coming up in the spring. We weren’t going to be popular anytime soon, but we would get this crew back in line.

  Assuming I kept my head in the game, anyway, and that had been a struggle lately.

  “You all right?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Yeah. I . . .” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “I’m curious about something.”

  He made a go ahead gesture. “Sure. What’s on your mind?”

  “You heard about immigrant vets getting deported after their time is up?”

  Hawthorne shrugged. “If their green cards expire, sure.”

  “And there’s nothing we can do about it?”

  He studied me. “You got someone under you who wants to get citizenship?”

  “I’m, uh . . . Not someone in particular. And it’s someone who’s not in anymore.”

  Immediately, Hawthorne shook his head. “Nothing we can do if he’s been discharged.”

  I blinked.

  He shrugged again. “Look, Sailors and officers have plenty of opportunity to apply for naturalization while they’re in.” He sat back, shaking his head. “If they don’t go through the available channels while they’re on active duty, ain’t much we can do once they’re discharged.”

  I pursed my lips. “So it doesn’t bother you? Someone getting out after serving and then getting booted out of the country?”

  “I’m not thrilled with it, but as long as there are options available while they’re active, I don’t have a lot of sympathy for people who don’t take advantage.”

  Gritting my teeth, I asked, “And what if they’re discharged before they have that opportunity?”

  “Then either they fucked up and got kicked out early, or they’re full of shit.” The harsh tone offered no sympathy or flexibility. “There’s no way someone can’t find time to fill out some paperwork in four years.”

  Okay, a few weeks ago I’d have agreed he had a point, but now it didn’t sit right with me. Diego had been to combat. He’d been wounded. He had PTSD bad enough to be triggered into a panic attack by a TV commercial. And he’d had every intention of getting naturalized, but by the time he’d recovered enough to be functional, the Navy was showing him to the door thanks to a computer algorithm.

  Before I could say something, Hawthorne gave a disgusted sneer. “What’s really fucked up is these illegals who still want VA benefits.”

  “You don’t think they should have them?”

  “Fuck no, I don’t.”

  I blinked. “Why not? They earned them.”

  “And they also earned a shot at becoming citizens. If they don’t use that, and they’re not going to pay taxes and work legally like everybody else . . .” He shook his head. “Then no, I don’t think they should be getting benefits other vets have to jump through hoops to get.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “So, what if—hypothetically—a wounded vet was kicked out under Perform to Serve? Before he’d had a chance to get his citizenship squared away?”

  Hawthorne scowled. “PTS was a flawed program. It’s a damn good thing they scrapped it. The Sailors who were discharged under it? It’s a shame, but . . .” He waved a hand and sighed. “Look, it isn’t like they would’ve been kicked out overnight. The first PTS score wasn’t final. But if the second one said they were out, then . . .” Another shrug.

  I swallowed.

  “And it wasn’t like people didn’t know about PTS.” Hawthorne rapped a knuckle on his broad steel desk. “If I were an immigrant and knew that shit was hanging over my head, I’d be filling out my immigration forms right away. What excuse does someone have to wait until the last second?”

  “Besides combat-related convalescence?”

  Hawthorne cocked his head, and his eyes narrowed a little. “This isn’t a hypothetical, is it?”

  I tried not to shift noticeably, but I probably failed.

  “This can’t be one of your Sailors.” He studied me intently. “What’s going on?”

  “Just a . . .” I thought fast. “Friend of a friend. Got kicked out under PTS while he was recuperating from combat injuries.”

  “And he was an illegal?”

  “He wasn’t at the time, but his visa expired after—”

  “How long was he in?”

  “Eight years.”

  Hawthorne shook his head, a faint sneer on his lips. “Then he’s got no one to blame but himself. In eight years, he could have done that paperwork. If he isn’t motivated enough to fill out some forms, the Navy doesn’t need him and neither does this countr
y.”

  “And there’s nothing we can do.” I sounded even more resigned than I felt.

  “Once they’ve been discharged, they’re not our problem anymore. Not our jurisdiction and not our responsibility.” Case closed, I could almost hear him adding.

  So I just nodded. “All right. I was just curious.”

  We talked for a few more minutes, but then he needed to get to a meeting. I had one in an hour, which meant I had some time to slip off the boat and see if Diego had messaged me.

  On the way to the quarterdeck and the ramp that would take me pier-side, I fought to quell a sick feeling that had started during my conversation with the CO. Convincing him he was wrong was probably a lost cause, but I didn’t like the idea that the Navy could and would do nothing for Diego. Except . . . what could they do? If he’d been discharged recently, maybe, but it had been several years.

  Hawthorne’s comments about illegals grated on me more than anything. Someone who’d served shouldn’t have been illegal. Period. Why veterans weren’t automatically granted citizenship, I would never understand. A non-US citizen veteran being denied health care for his war-related injuries? That was some bullshit.

  I made a mental note to see if any of the personnel on my ship were in danger of falling into Diego’s circumstances. Even if Perform to Serve had rightfully gone the way of the dinosaur, it didn’t hurt to make sure people were prepared in case they decided not to reenlist. At the very least, I could put out a memo urging any immigrants under my command to come talk to me about making sure the proper paperwork was filed if citizenship was something they wanted.

  I’d do that after my meeting. First things first, though, I needed to check on the man who’d spent the whole night tossing and turning next to me.

  Down on the pier, where my signal was stronger, I took out my phone. I was more than a little relieved to see a text from Diego.

  Hey. :) Feeling better today. Thx for last night.

  I smiled as I read and reread his words. Then I wrote back, You’re welcome. Glad to hear it. After I’d sent that message, I added, See you tonight?

  As soon as Diego started typing, my heart flipped. I silently begged him not to say no. Even if he was still off-kilter tonight, I wanted to be with him. At least then I could see for myself that he was all right. Close to it, anyway.

  Then he stopped typing. Shit. What did that mean? Was he trying to let me down easy somehow? Had I done something wrong? Fuck, maybe I’d been too pushy about the ER thing. He’d been busy falling apart and I hadn’t been willing to let it go, so he’d had to argue with me while trying to get his head together.

  I winced at the memory. Oh crap. I’d handled that all wrong, hadn’t I? Now how the hell did I—

  He was typing again. A few seconds later, a message came through:

  Sorry. Boss called. Tonight sounds good. After closing ok?

  I smiled like an idiot and wrote back, Can’t wait.

  Today was better. Much, much better. The ghosts had scattered. They’d be back eventually—they always came back—but for now, they were gone, and I was grounded in the present where I belonged. I made it through my shift without falling apart. By the time I was on my way to Mark’s, I was damn near twitching, but it was a new kind of restlessness. Or at least one I hadn’t felt recently.

  I was horny.

  Not just horny. I wanted Mark. We hadn’t had sex in days because I’d been too much of a wreck. After last night, I should’ve still been a wreck, but I wanted him. Especially after he’d swung by the club earlier to bring me dinner and check on me. He’d only been there a couple of minutes, but something about seeing him tonight, about the look in his eyes that said he was concerned and he cared and maybe even still wanted me, was driving me insane.

  You’re going to know—tonight—how much I want you.

  So as soon as he let me into the house, I grabbed him and kissed him hard. He hesitated at first, stiffening in my arms, but then he must’ve decided to follow my lead. Wrapping his arms around me, he gave as good as he got. His fingers raked through my hair, and we held each other so tight and so close I could feel his erection growing under his jeans.

  “You’re—” He licked his lips. “I didn’t think you’d be in the mood tonight.”

  “Neither did I.” Christ, I was out of breath. “But I have been ever since you showed up at the bar.”

  He stared at me, and I thought for a second we were going to stop and pick apart exactly why that moment had made me so hungry for him. Instead, he cradled the back of my head, drew me in, and kissed me even harder than before. No more talking. No more questioning. I tugged him toward the stairs, and he groaned against my lips as he followed me.

  We stumbled a few more steps until we hit the bannister. Then I broke the kiss, and we hurried up and into the bedroom.

  “I want you naked,” he growled. The commanding tone made my spine prickle.

  I grinned against his neck. “Do you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Maybe you should do something about it.”

  He exhaled sharply, then shoved my shirt up and off. His nails raked down my bare skin, making my breath hitch. Clothes came off, even if they were a bit stubborn about it. I swore if I could tear denim with my bare hands, there’d be nothing left of those jeans. I couldn’t, though, and after some swearing, they were on the floor along with his boxers.

  We finally sank onto the bed, completely naked and holding each other close. It had only been a week or so since we’d done this, but the heat of his skin against mine was as intoxicating as it had been the first time.

  I moved to straddle him but flinched as a bolt of pain shot through my leg. Fuck. Just what I needed—my stupid leg to act up now that my brain had finally calmed down. Okay, plan B.

  “I’ve got a better idea.” I moved onto my back and started stroking myself. “Get me a condom and get on.”

  Mark’s eyes widened, but he quite clearly had no objection to the idea. He handed me a condom, and as I put it on, he poured some lube in his hand. When he started stroking it on me, I damn near lost it.

  “Fuck, Mark . . .” I bit my lip, arching my back as he pumped my dick. “Get . . . get on, damn it.”

  He didn’t even bother teasing me. He straddled me, and then he was easing himself down onto my cock, taking me in one long, slow stroke until I was all the way in.

  “Oh God,” I breathed. “That’s . . . Oh God.”

  “Mmm, yeah.” He planted his hands on the mattress on either side of my head, and I ran my palms up his arms as he found a steady rhythm with his hips. A low moan escaped his lips, and then “Fuck, you feel good.”

  “You too. And you look . . .” I slid my hands down to his thighs. “Ungh. Christ.”

  I was fucking drunk on him. Completely overwhelmed by all these sensations—being inside him, being under him, his hot skin and his hard, perfect thrusts—and ready to break down and cry from the sheer joy of not being scared. Because for the last several days, I’d been scared. Constantly. Of my own mind. Of my past. Of losing Mark. Of never feeling normal again. Of losing what little stability I had.

  And right now—even if it was just until we were done fucking—I wasn’t scared of anything. That void where all the fear had been was full of warmth and lust. It was just him and me, bodies and sweat and whispered curses, and I was flying as he took my cock again and again.

  “Oh God,” I moaned. “God, Mark, I’m . . . Yeah, that’s . . .” I slid my hands up his chest, palms gliding across the slick sweat and fingers parting the thin dark hair. “I’m gonna come.”

  “Yeah?” he panted. “You close?”

  I nodded because I’d forgotten how to talk. Fuck it. Didn’t need to talk. He knew. I dug my teeth into my lip and my heels into the mattress and lifted my hips, meeting him every time he came down.

  “Oh yeah,” he growled. “You are so hot. Love . . . love watching you come apart. Jesus, Diego.”

  I tried to speak,
but he added some twist or roll or whatever to his hips, and that was all I could take. I yelled something that might or might not have been in Spanish, and as I came, Mark kept right on going, clenching hard around my dick and riding me fast until I couldn’t take any more.

  He lifted himself off my cock but stayed on top of me.

  “C’mere,” I ordered, and as he came down to kiss me, I closed my hand around his dick. He met my lips with a low groan. I slid my other hand behind his neck and kept a tight grip as I kissed him deeply and stroked him. His hips rocked like he was still riding me, and hot huffs of breath rushed past my cheek as he seemed to get even thicker and harder in my hand.

  He broke the kiss, and his head fell beside mine. He fucked into my fist and groaned into my ear. “Fuck yeah, baby . . . God . . .” Then he shuddered hard, and my strokes were suddenly slick with cum, and he thrust a few more times before he collapsed over me. “Fuck.”

  “We should . . .” I murmured. “We should definitely do it like this again.”

  “Uh-huh.” He brushed a breathless kiss across my lips. “Shower?”

  “Sure. Soon as I can stand.”

  It was a good five minutes before either of us was steady on our feet. We finally made it into the shower, though, and the hot water felt good. Good, but not nearly as good as Mark’s body. Both at the same time? Fuck yes.

  We didn’t paw at each other or try to get things started again. We just stood there under the running water, my cheek resting on his shoulder while he nuzzled my hair. And it was amazing. It was perfect. My skin had finally stopped crawling, and I loved the way it felt to be pressed against him. The PTSD episode had been long and horrible, but standing here in the shower with Mark, body satisfied and tingling after my orgasm, I felt like the episode was really over.

  “Doing all right?” he asked after a while.

  “Yeah.” I pulled back and met his eyes. It was weird how things between us weren’t weird. There was no pity in his expression. Concern, yes, but also other things. Warmth. Need. Lust. Christ, it was like he hadn’t had a front row seat to my breakdown. It was like . . . he still saw me. And he still wanted me.